When our dad is not at homewe preside over one anotherby senioritydispensing injusticethe way he doesthe youngestobliged to be contentwith lording it over dolls, dogsand smaller neighborhood kids.

But when he turns up, we scatterby bike, trike, even roller skatessometimes hiding at Bobby's house.Never far enough.Not one of us gets awaywithout bruises and scarsand various name-brand neuroses.I, however, am the only one

disappearing inside myselflike day shrouded by nighthiding in plain sight.

How many hours in the shoe factory, how many days on the assembly line sewing flies into men’s trousers, screwing tiny parts into Royal typewriters,how many years cleaning other people's housesequal that much money?

You could have escapedin 1950 with ten thousand dollars,left him and started over,found someone who knew how to love you,or at least some peace.

I would return it to you if I could,every dime,if the deadcould accept returns.

My brother bends one at a timethe stand of lean saplings into a shelterin the forest where we play. He works hard.roofing with sod he carves from a grassy placebeyond the trees. With a piece of discarded lumberhe scrapes the dirt floor until it favors the brown-glassbeer bottles we find on the highway, load into our wagon,and redeem for 2 cents each at the only store in town.

I work too:sweeping with a tree-branch broomforaging for the right leavesfor pretend food, and the right twigsfor forks, and the right rocks for chairs.

Not once during our busy daydoes my brother raise his voice to me,though our father’s words hammering our mothermust echo in his head. We sit in our playhouse at the lipof Hubble Creek like a quiet old couple, our shared secretsnot even a whisper between us, unconcerned about our neighbors,the copperheads and cottonmouths that hide in their own dark places.

At our real home a thick black beltcoils around our father’s waist,ready with its hiss and bite and sting.And though the red of eveningstarts a slow burn in our empty bellies,we are in no hurry to get back there.

I am number two in the processionof 8-year-olds in filmy white dressesand net veils marching to the front of thepew of St. Ambrose, hands foldedinto steeples, eyes downcast. WhenSister Mary Eustace signals with herclicker, we approach the altar singlefile and stick out our tonguesat Fr. Garrity to receive the bodyof Christ for the first time. Sisterhas assured us that today is so specialwe may ask for anything and it willbe granted, but adds it is best to prayfor sainthood. So I do. I ask to be made a saint, though I am pining for a bicycle.

Down the aisle I go again, this timein a cloud of bridal white, fingers tighton the stem of a thorny red rose, eyesstudying my pumps. I am 19 when Imarch into the tuxedoed armsof matrimonial hell, the provingground of a litany of women saints.Thirty-two years later, having failedat holiness and in the throes of divorce,I remember that I could have had a bicycle.